


And We Drown

by Semira



Series: And We Drown [ Vampire!Sam AU ] [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Caring Dean Winchester, Dean's Voicemail Fix-It, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Repressed Winchesters (Supernatural), Fix-It, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, POV Sam Winchester, Parental Bobby Singer, Protective Bobby Singer, Sam Winchester-centric, Season/Series 06, Sick Sam Winchester, Suicidal Thoughts, Vampire Sam Winchester, Vampire Turning, Vampires, Worried Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 04:19:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14741873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Semira/pseuds/Semira
Summary: Dean's heavy footfalls on the porch are a death knell. All Sam feels is relief.He crashes into the house before Bobby can open the door. Eyes closed, Sam hears a ragged, choked, "Where is he, Bobby?Where's Sammy?"It shouldn't hurt this much, the way that old name slides off Dean's tongue like it still belongs there. Dean probably thinks Sam's dead. He wouldn't pick up any calls from Bobby after the first. He doesn't know the truth is infinitely worse.Sam imagines this will be the last time he'll hear that name from his brother's lips. He wants to cherish it, right up until he feels the cold steel of a machete against his neck.In other words:Sequel to'Til Human Voices Wake Us. Sam wakes from the agonizing effects of the cure to a darker world. Dean finds out what happened, and the cruel voicemail he didn't actually leave on Sam's phone comes into play.





	And We Drown

There aren't words, really, for the pain of the cure, not that he's looking for any. It sets his body alight, poison singing through his veins, mouth stretched wide and body arched and trembling, burning (and, oh, he _knows_ what it is to burn, a part of him supplies, but he doesn't know where it comes from). Bobby was right about the horror movie stuff. It doesn't take long before Sam lurches up and then falls onto his side, emptying his stomach into the bucket Bobby prepared.

That's how it starts, but it doesn't end there. The burning spreads from his core to his extremities, until every inch of skin feels raw and flayed. He's hot but his body's breaking out in a cold sweat, and he's shaking so bad he can barely hold himself upright. And it's okay. It's okay because it's cleansing him. He'll be human again soon—or as human as he ever was.

He writhes and lashes out. More than once, he accidentally hits Bobby. He's pretty sure he begs to be tied down, but Bobby just flinches and says, "You're okay, boy. Just hold on. I've got you. I've got you."

He doesn't notice that his new teeth descend and pierce his lower lip, but he does notice, later, the belt Bobby folded and put between his teeth.

It takes a long time for the cure to work through him.

Not long enough, it turns out. The fire recedes, and he lies on a cot soaked with his own sweat, growing cold. He doesn't have the strength to turn over or sit up. His body has forgotten how to do anything except shake.

His eyes slip closed. His head pounds to the tune of his heartbeat, and he slips into rest that's more like unconsciousness.

Too soon, awareness returns, and Sam's eyelids fly open.

The first thing he smells, above the stench of his own sweat and vomit, is blood, fresh and enticing.

It hits him with the crushing weight of hopelessness: the cure didn't work. He's a monster, now. From now on.

"Bobby?" he tries. It's barely voiced, but it's loud enough.

A solid lump he hadn't been able to identify as human jolts upright. As Bobby comes into focus, Sam sees how tired he looks. Beside him is a basin of water with several wet rags. As Sam tries to force himself upright, a lukewarm cloth slips from his head. He gets about halfway up before deciding it isn't worth the effort. He falls back down.

"Scared me to death, boy." Bobby sighs, reaches out a hand to feel Sam's forehead. He grunts, then reaches out to take the soggy cloth. "Fever's gone."

"Bobby, I...." Sam swallows. His throat is killing him, voice rough from hunger and dehydration and screaming. "The cure..."

"I know, boy. I know."

Sam wants to apologize. "You've gotta..."

"Gotta what? You sayin' I haveta kill you, Sam? 'Cause I meant what I said before. Don't matter one whit to me if you've got an extra set of chompers. I said we'd figure this out and we will." A pause. "Balls." Before Sam can ask what prompted the whole-hearted curse, Bobby continues, "Dean. Your brother ain't got no idea what happened to you. I gotta tell 'im, Sam."

That gives Sam the strength to get up. He throws an arm out in Bobby's general direction. "No," he says, but it comes out more like a whimper. "Bobby, don't. Don't tell Dean." He's been enough of a disappointment lately. They're a whole bunch of straws past the one that broke the camel's back. "Please."

His vision fuzzes when he pushes himself up onto his elbows, and time loses meaning for a bit. When he comes back to himself, he hears Bobby's quiet voice echoing into the room. "No, it's me. I borrowed his phone. He... Dean, he can't—he can't come— won't you just _listen to me,_ you pigheaded boy! Sam 'n I went on a hunt, Dean. Yeah. Together. I was with 'im. What? Vampires. Shouldn't have been a big deal. We..." Bobby's voice breaks. "Dean. they got Sam. Got him bad. Shoulda killed 'im, what they did, but—" Bobby's voice fades, and Sam can hear tinny and indistinct yelling. "Dean, listen, he's—" More yelling, then silence. Sam hears, "Shit." After a little bit, Bobby comes down the stairs and back into the room. "Your brother's on his way."

-oOo-

Sam loses time. It's like demon blood withdrawals, but there's less mind stuff. This is more visceral, gut-deep agony. He has no more strength than an infant. Sam has to beg Bobby to help him out of the panic room. He won't see Dean in there. Not again. Too many bad memories down there. He doesn't remember getting up the stairs and onto Bobby's couch with a blanket on his lap, but he hears the Impala roaring down the road a good mile and a half before it arrives, careening up to Bobby's door and sending gravel skittering everywhere. Dean's heavy footfalls on the porch are a death knell. All Sam feels is relief.

Dean crashes into the house before Bobby can open the door. Eyes closed, Sam hears a ragged, choked, "Where is he, Bobby? Where's Sammy?"

It shouldn't hurt this much, the way that old name slides off Dean's tongue like it still belongs there. Dean probably thinks Sam's dead. He wouldn't pick up any calls from Bobby after the first. He doesn't know the truth is infinitely worse.

Sam imagines this will be the last time he'll hear that name from his brother's lips. He wants to cherish it, right up until he feels the cold steel of a machete against his neck.

There's some muttering and placation, but whatever Bobby's trying at, it doesn't work.

" _Where is he, Bobby?_ " Dean repeats, deadly slow and quiet.

"On the couch."

Dean makes a sound of mixed anger and grief, and the footsteps stomp into the living room, their sound overwhelming, sending shards of pain splintering through Sam's skull. "Quiet, please..." he pleads, but isn't sure it's even audible.

Dean stops dead, eyes wide, hands outstretched. "Sam," he breathes, like a man granted pardon. "You're..."

He smells like earth and sweat and beer and blood, and Sam whimpers at the reminder of his hunger, turning away.

"Are you hurt? Sammy, what's wrong? Bobby said—" Dean stalks forward and bends to see Sam's face, hands reaching out and whispering over him, lifting his chin, touching the place on his neck where his own blood still lies, half wiped away and peeling off in brown flakes. "Look at me. Look at me, okay? That's it, that's—"

Sam hears the hitch in his breath when it hits Dean, whimpers at the withdrawal of Dean's warm hands and the smell that always rings of _home_.

He slits his eyes to see what's going on, but flinches when Dean turns and advances on Bobby, coiled-tight and lethal. "I fucking _asked you_ to watch out for him, Bobby! I told you to keep him safe! I _trusted_ you!"

His fist lashes against a nearby wall, sending a musty photo frame crashing to the ground. A small pile of books topples down to join it.

Bobby says nothing. Sam wants to speak up, say it wasn't Bobby's fault, but he's so tired. He forces strength into his limbs that he never knew was there. And isn't that the Winchester way, taxing reserves that don't actually exist? He stands, whispers, "Dean."

Dean turns to Sam like he's the second coming, and whispers, "There's a cure. Sam, there's a cure. We can get it for you. You got blood from the one that bit you? You're gonna be fine, Sam."

Sam nearly falls to his knees at the relief in Dean's voice. He doesn't want to be the one to destroy it, but he shakes his head, slow and resolute.

Bobby speaks first. "The vampire's mate tracked us on our way back, caught us outside a gas station. Sam was... in a bad way, still healin', Dean. She got me, rubbed my blood on his face... everywhere."

This is about the time when Dean would normally interrupt, but he just waits, mouth half-open, like he's watching a catastrophe unfold before his very eyes.

Like he's watching the world end. Like he's watching Sam jump into the pit again, far away, beyond any place Dean could ever reach.

"He didn't—Dean, you've gotta know. Sam didn't even move. Kept his mouth shut tight even while he was starvin'. The healing, Dean... it took everything out of 'im, and he didn't drink a drop. It... it got into his eyes or his nose is our only good guess. We tried. The cure didn't work."

Sam knows it's going to happen before Bobby does, but standing is taking all his strength. Dean winds back and punches Bobby in the face. Bobby stands there, takes it like he's taken licks just like it and more besides. Bobby licks blood from his lips while Sam sways toward him, biting his lip and opening the sluggishly healing cuts he opened earlier. "I told him we're gonna figure things out. Be angry, Dean, but don't be angry at him."

"Oh, I'm not angry at _him_ , Bobby! You promised me you'd watch over him!"

Sam bristles with the desire to defend himself, but subsides. There's no point to it now.

Sound and sight grow faint. Sam is sure Dean and Bobby are talking about something. After a while, Bobby retreats, and Dean walks slowly toward Sam. Sam squints to see him. He's walking like you walk at a funeral, like there's no place worth going except in the ground. While Sam has the presence of mind, he chooses to speak. "We have machetes in the trunk, Dean."

Dean blinks. It's almost endearing, the face he gives Sam, like _of fucking course we have machetes in the trunk; I cleaned 'em last Tuesday while you were styling your hair._ It's not so funny when the words really reach him.

"No." He says it without thinking. "No."

"What do you mean?" Sam scoffs. "Are you getting cold feet _now_?"

"The hell, Sam?" The impotent rage Dean turned on Bobby boils up again. He paces forward, eyes narrowed. "We—I'm not just gonna kill you!"

"You said it before! What's so different now that I actually am a vampire? You'll kill me just the same.”

The scalding anger simmers down a notch, confusion drawing his eyebrows into an arch. “Sam,” he starts, and then bites his tongue and turns away, pacing a sharp staccato across the floor, back and forth for a while. “Whaddaya mean, said it before?”

“I still have the damn voicemail, Dean! I know that thing word for word. You said you would. I need you to, now.”

“ _What_ voicemail?”

Sam's shaking, sick with the remembrance. “The one....” he breathes, barely audible.

Dean leans in, huffing out a breath in irritation. “Speak up, Sam.”

“The one you sent. Right before I―before L-Lilith. The one where you said...” He waves his hand, unable to force the words out.

Dean grows quiet. “Voicemail? Damn it, Sam, I―” He paces a bit more, thinking. After a few steps, he stops, spinning on his heel. “Oh! You mean that awkward-as-fuck one I sent after we―after the hotel that time? What, my apology wasn't good enough for you? What do you want from me?”

"Your—apology?"The sound that scrapes from his throat is whisper-thin, barely a laugh. "Dean, you said you were going to _kill_ me. You called me a bloodsucking freak. Look, I know we don't do apologies or whatever, but if that's your idea of sorry, I'd like a refund."

A claw-like grip takes one shoulder and spins him, and Sam thinks, _finally_. He's never been happier of John's teachings than now. He won't live like this, and if a few inflammatory comments are all it takes to remind Dean of his promise and the determination and hatred it carried, so be it.

He doesn't feel the cold press of steel against his throat, though. Instead, the painful grip on his shoulder turns him around, and rough, callused fingers tip his chin up. Sam can't bring himself to look any higher than Dean's chin, because they've spent years dancing around the subject of Sam's monstrous nature, and here, in Sam's hunger, is the evidence of it. All he lacked all these years were the teeth to show for it.

"Show me." Quiet. To human ears, maybe inaudible.

"Show you what?"

"You said you... you kept it. Show me where I said those things."

Sam inhales a fortifying breath and breaks free from Dean's grip on his shoulder. He still has the burner with the message. Of course he does. Not even his soulless self could discard that scathing consternation, he supposes. Perhaps it was a reminder even to that other Sam that there were lines he must not cross.

He pulls it out, dials his voicemail, and a placid voice recites, _one saved voicemail,_ before Dean hears his own voice spew poison into Sam's phone.

The certainty of it hits Sam, suddenly: when he was soulless, he listened to this message often. _You're not you anymore. And there's no going back._ Perhaps it was a reminder to him, just as it has been a reminder to Sam.

Dean is close again, walking up behind Sam as the phone rattles off options. "Gimme that."

Sam's grip on the phone is loose. It doesn't take much strength on Dean's part to pull it away. The options begin playing again, and Dean presses the key to delete the message.

Sam lurches forward as a cheerful voice reports that the message has been erased. "Dean, why..."

The phone is pressed into his hand again, empty of the sole reason Sam held onto it, that ready reminder of his inhumanity and his sins. He snaps it closed and lets it drop, frowning when it hits the floor and skitters across it. His eyes lazily track its movements until Dean steps in front of him.

The strength that has kept him standing this long abandons him. His legs shake and his knees won't lock. Dean's grip on his shoulders is gentle this time, guiding him in a half circle and walking him backward until he stumbles down onto Bobby's couch.

Dean kneels beside him. "I didn't send it. I know—Jesus, Sam. How much of a freaking masochist can you—" Dean growls, shakes his head. "That's not me."

"Sure sounds like you." It comes out hollow.

"Yeah, I fucking know that. I know my own voice—even through crappy speakers. But it's not me, Sam. I did send you a message, before. I... sat for a while and felt sorry for myself, and Christ, I was still pissed off at you, but I called you up and I apologized, Sam. Said we were family and I had your back. Obviously you never got it and I can't prove I did it, but I promise, man. That message, that wasn't me. You gotta believe me."

Sam tilts his head, trying to process it. Dean looks no different at a forty-fove degree angle than he looks straight on. He blinks.

"And you _kept_ it this whole time to, what? Flagellate yourself with? Jesus, Sam! Jesus Fuckin' Christ, man." Dean rockets to his feet and resumes pacing. "You... all this time, you thought I wanted to..."

Sam shrugs. "It's okay."

"It's not okay! I wanna find the bastard who did this and—" Dean's fists clench at chest-height and Sam summons a wan smile at the recollection of Dean's oft-repeated threat to rip the lungs out of Sam's childhood bullies.

Sam frowns. "It was... it was probably the angels. Or the demons. You know. Either. They wanted us apart, wanted us hurting."

"I can't believe you thought—" Dean stares at Sam, and there must be something in Sam's face that stops that line of thinking dead. "Fuck." The pacing resumes.

After a long while, he speaks again, lower this time. "You don't have to believe me. I... I said plenty of stuff enough like it that you have no reason not to believe me, but.... that's not the message I left. I was angry when we... when we fought that time. Said stuff I didn't mean, but it was enough like that message that you had every reason..." Dean scowls, twisting his face up in an expression that looks hilariously constipated. Sam waits. The constipated look is usually Dean trying to find words to express something he finds tough or distasteful.

Finally, Dean paces back to Sam and sits beside him, throwing his weight at the couch like it's a weapon. When the alarming creaking finally stops, he turns to Sam. If the angle weren't so awkward and Dean had marginally more alcohol in him, Sam thinks it possible that Dean might put his hands on both sides of Sam's face. He doesn't. Instead, he says, "Sam." Solid. An ultimatum. Sam says nothing. "Sam, I'm sorry. I am sorry. I said it in the message I sent and I meant it, but I'm sorry you had reason to believe all that crap, too."

There's a heartbreaking relief as it sinks in, that his brother doesn't hate him, hasn't spent all this time wrestling with a desire to kill him. On the heels of that, though, comes a hopelessness twice as heavy, because there was a certain _rightness_ in Sam's state before all this. His newfangled inhumanity was just a tangible confirmation of everything Dean had known all along. Simple. Neat.

It hurts more, this way, because there are apparently still depths he can plumb. Apparently Dean hasn't hit the limit of disappointment in Sam. Sam can still make Dean ashamed to bear the same name.

Tears prick at his eyes, and Sam swallows and clenches them shut, forcing words through his closing throat. "Dean, I'm a monster."

"Sam, _I'm_ a monster! We're all monsters, a hop and a skip away from being actual certifiable psychopaths, but you, Sam—you've always been the soft one. You've always been, I dunno, nice. And brainy. All that freakin'... philosophy and whatever. That's still you. I mean, you're sitting there starving yourself because you—I don't actually know why. Because you're an idiot." Dean sighs, rubs a hand over a face desperately in need of shaving. "You may be a vampire, but you're sure as shit not a monster."

Sam keeps his eyes closed. "If you're not gonna kill me, then... what?" Silence falls between them. Dean must be all out of platitudes. Sam appreciates the effort, but this isn't sustainable. Once he sees Sam succumb to this new nature enough times—once his instinct to protect loses to his instinct to kill monsters— "Where do we go from here?"

"First, we get you something to eat."

Sam's stomach throbs at the thought of food. "I can't." His body knows what it wants, and burgers or salad won't do.

Dean gets up, stalks through the house until he strides outside, where Sam supposes Bobby has been leaving them alone. Bobby comes in with Dean, and they walk, muttering, into the kitchen. Sam's stomach sinks as he hears things rattling around in the kitchen. He doesn't have the strength to try to stomach food right now. What little he had has been funneled into staying upright and processing the things he learned today. Sam might black out, because the next thing he knows, they're both standing a ways away, looking awkward and uncertain.

Bobby shuffles forward from behind Dean. "Look, you don't have the choice to be vegetarian anymore, but we figured we'd start you out right. The butcher in town owes me a favor. Askin' him to keep the blood from one of the slaughters wasn't too big a request, all things considered. I called while you were out, earlier. I meant what I told ya. It ain't gonna stay good long, but, uh..." Bobby holds up a cup. It's one of those vintage flower-patterned flare-rimmed things that he's undoubtedly had since Karen's death. None of the cups in Bobby's cupboards match anymore, but on top of one of his shelves is a small, matched set of tableware he thinks no one knows about. This is part of the set. The rim of the milky-white china is red-smeared, the cheerful pastel flowers interrupted with watery crimson streaks here and there. Sam can smell it from where he sits, heavy and rich. He groans.

He isn't sure he has the energy to live right now, but he sure as hell doesn't have the energy it takes to stand on his feet, much less to die. This will give him time to think.

He holds his hand for the cup, staring at the thick, dark contents, already coagulating. Something so disgusting has never looked so good.

He barely has the strength to hold it. Even in both hands, the cup shakes, nearly slopping its precious contents onto the couch. Sam sets it down on the table for the moment, tasting the drops that spilled over onto his hand. He nearly sobs at the taste of it.

"Pig's blood," Bobby mutters. "As close to long pig as I could get. Dunno if it tastes any different from cow blood. You'll have to let me know. Figure you'll be a connoisseur of this stuff before long."

Sam tries a smile at Bobby's sharp-edged attempt at acceptance and humor. This is rough on all of them. He can't bring himself to speak, but he nods.

Bobby and Dean have cups of their own from the dainty little set, and they splash a generous serving of whiskey into each and pull up chairs. Sam chuckles through a mouthful of razor teeth. At least he's not alone in blaspheming the original purpose of the excessively adorable cups.

"Bottoms up," Bobby says. And who is Sam to deny him?

Dean watches while Sam fumbles the cup into his shaking grip, while he tips it into his mouth and swallows. He watches the whole time. Sometime in all that, Bobby gets up and leaves, and Sam realizes he's crying. It all ended whenever that small bit of Bobby's blood got into his eye or nose or whatever happened at that gas station, but this feels like the real ending, like there's no going back. Last time, he had no choice. Inhumanity was forced on him. This time—this time feels too much like drinking from Ruby, except back then he could fight back the shame with the stalwart belief (and what a fool he had been, truly) that in doing so, he was saving people, doing _good_. Now it feels filthy and selfish, dirtier than he can remember feeling in recent memory. Because now he lives to hurt others, and he's not sure he can ever do enough good to counterbalance that.

He hadn't thought to wonder if vampires could cry. He supposes he'll be learning all sorts of things vampires can do pretty soon.

Dean crowds in beside him, and Sam mutters _Sorry, sorry, Dean, I'm so sorry_ , with blood-slick teeth, and his brother's arms wrap around him tight enough to break bones.

"You ain't got a thing to be sorry for, Sam. Not a damn thing."

Sam falls asleep on Dean's shoulder when the last of the blood in the cup is gone.

Vampires, he finds, dream just like everyone else.

**Author's Note:**

> It has been... so freaking long. I'm sorry it took this long. I now have the concerning task of deciding whether I want any future installations to be random one-offs or whether I have the self-control to make this a chronological re-imagining of canon. I really wanted to make Sam drink Dean's blood in this one, but suffice it to say that _that_ particular event will be saved for a harrowing future experience, which I am already gleefully imagining. As always, I post episode tags on [Tumblr](http://semirahrose.tumblr.com/tagged/tumblr-fic) that I don't post here. Any thoughts would be greatly appreciated!


End file.
